Snapshots of a Shattered Soul
by NishaGreyjoy
Summary: They called her Nisha the Lawbringer. The Sheriff of Lynchwood. The most evil woman in the galaxy. But no one would ever understand her past. No one would ever understand her pain. (A look at pivotal events in Nisha's backstory, along with an alternate, more sympathetic take on the character.)


**This is the first chapter in my attempt to flesh out Nisha's backstory. I've long been enamoured of her as a character, and I love getting into the heads of characters and finding out what makes them tick, so to speak. This is definitely an alternate take on the character, and the idea is to make her understandable, even relateable. I have and will continue to take certain liberties with her storyline, though I will do my best to avoid clashing with canon.**

 **This first chapter is to show a person who feels very alone in the world. It's heavy on the angsting, but the point is to show her thoughts and her constant self recrimination. There will be alot of this in my writing, and I apologize if it gets on the lengthy side. I really do hope you all enjoy it.**

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Chapter One - The Bitch

Nisha saw the pebble coming before it hit her. She saw it neatly nestled on the thumb of the one who flicked it at her, saw the smirk on her face, saw the amused looks of the friends clustered around her. She knew what was coming. She could have moved, could have dodged out of the way. But they would laugh at her. "What a scaredy-cat," they would say. "Afraid of a little rock?" they would say. "Nisha the bitch," they would say. The pebble would hurt, but the laughter would hurt worse. She was tired of people laughing at her. So she didn't try to get out of the way. She didn't jump aside. She continued her unhurried stride to the entrance of the school building. She'd show them she wasn't afraid. She saw the smirk widen, saw the motion of the thumb, saw the pebble take flight. She did not jump aside. She felt the sting as the pebble arced into the side of her head and then heard it bounce on the dirt by her feet. She felt a measure of pride – she hadn't let them get to her. She was tough. She had taken a rock to the head and not even flinched. And then she heard the laughter.

She swallowed and did her best to keep her face blank. She quickened her pace, lengthening her stride. She heard them talking among themselves. She could feel the tears coming. She had to get away from them, had to make it out of eyesight, out of earshot. She couldn't let them *see.* If she could just make it to the school entrance, she could take refuge in the nearby bathroom. If she could just hold back a little longer, if she could steal just ONE small victory from this…

"I think she's trying not to cry." She heard it softly, followed by more laughing. The pain lanced through her. She screwed up her eyes, but it did no good. The tears were flowing freely now. She choked back a sob. She was running now. She blew past a pair of students outside the bathroom door, not caring for their reaction. She ran inside. Mercifully, no one was there. She found herself an empty stall and sat down. And then, finally alone, she cried.

Just the beginning of another school day.

Nisha often wondered if there weren't secret bully meetings at the beginning of each semester where they chose their targets beforehand. She didn't know how else to explain it. She couldn't remember when it specifically began to happen. It wasn't like she had said or done anything to make anyone dislike her. In truth she didn't say much to anyone at all. Most days she just showed up, attended classes and went home, and she didn't know why or how she got singled out. It was almost as if everyone just met up one day and said to themselves "Let's all just pick on Nisha. She's a loser. Nisha Kadam, 8th grade. The school bitch." And so it was.

"Bitch." She was hearing that word more and more these days. She hadn't known what it meant at first, only that she was one. She knew that because she had asked her mother what it meant and was told *she* was what it meant before getting a beating for using bad words in the house. Wary but undeterred, she found her father in the field and asked him what it meant, only for him to go very silent and turn away from her. Now burning with a need to know, she asked her younger sister, Dina. Dina was the favored child, as adored as Nisha was despised, and was considered by their mother to be the dutiful one. Which meant that she promised she would tell Nisha if she did Dina's chores that day, and then promptly told their mother while Nisha was safely occupied. Nisha took a second beating and had it burned into her that as the eldest child, she was supposed to be a positive role model, not teaching her sister bad words. Literally burned. With a lit cigarette end on her fingertips. Her sister thought that was pretty funny. Curiosity killed the cat.

Or rather, the bitch.

Curiosity nearly killed the bitch again that first class period. As a rule, Nisha always sat at the front and center of the class. Not that she wanted to be the teacher's pet or anything, for all people accused her of it. It was just that she saw enough of her tormentors in between classes and she found it easier to forget they existed that way. She might get a spitball at the back of her head sometimes, but that was still better than having to actually look at them. Classes could be a refuge like that. History was one of her favorite subjects, partly because asking questions was encouraged and it afforded her the opportunity to talk to someone who wasn't laughing at her or calling her a bitch. Of course, she had to be careful – ask too many questions and she risked alienating the rest of the class more than usual. At one point Mr. Adams had told her, as politely as he could, that while he appreciated her interest, he really did need to move on. This sentiment was echoed by the class with similar enthusiasm and a great deal more vulgarity. She had learned to ration her questions carefully, alternating between "talk days" and "silent days." Today was supposed to be "silent", but today's subject was so interesting!

Ragnall the Restless, leader of the "Explorers" mercenary company, so named because they specialized in planet colonization assignments! 200 years ago Ragnall, at the age of 65 and wanting to settle down, bid all his soldiers to attend him in his headquarters for their next contract, said to be the biggest yet. There, in front of his loyal men and women, he announced that the contract was one he himself had taken out, to be paid for from his own funds. Where would they go, they asked? His answer shocked them. After 38 years of helping take planets for others, Ragnall would take a planet for himself! This planet, unnamed and unclaimed, had the promise of a good life for those who settled it. Ragnall was determined to stake that claim. Would they follow him in this, his last and most ambitious assignment yet? YES, they roared as one, for Ragnall was the fiercest warrior of his age, a bringer of wealth and victory, and all men and women knew they would win as long as he led them. A thousand ships crossed the galaxy, stormed the planet, beat back the wildlife and established themselves. The Atlas Corporation was outraged. This planet, Nisha's home, was near to the twins Pandora and Promethea, which Atlas had recently claimed. Though it would be over a century before anyone colonized either, let alone realized the existence of the Vaults, both planets were believed to be potentially wealthy, and both showed signs of civilization. Surely the third planet, so close by, would be likewise both wealthy and of archaeological interest. Atlas had been trying to claim it before Ragnall moved in, and said that the Explorers should file a claim in the normal way. Ragnall defied them. HIS was the only civilization on the planet, and his presence there was all the claim he needed. If Atlas wished to contest that claim, they should come to the planet and make their case to the Explorers directly. Atlas sent in the Lance to argue that case. The Explorers won the argument, routing the Lance, devastating them so completely that it set back Atlas' colonization efforts for decades. Ragnall, glorious in his victory at the formal ratification of his claim, declared that in the borderlands of the galaxy, the law was argued in the language of action, and that all men and women of strength and purpose should come to his planet, to live free of their lessers and create the futures they deserved!

Somehow she didn't think Ragnall would have called her a bitch. And if he had laughed at anyone, it would have been at idiots like the ones she shared the class with. But he would not have laughed at what she heard next. It was too soft for the teacher to hear, but years of listening in terror for the sound of her mother outside her bedroom had given her an acute sense of hearing. It came from the back of the class and on the heels of her questions.

"…all those questions about Ragnall… I think the bitch wants to fuck him."

And the response, equally soft but equally unmistakable.

"Why not? Dead dude's only action she'll ever get."

Then she heard the quiet laughter.

Supposedly, when the Atlas envoy sent to contest Ragnall's claim insulted his age, Ragnall broke both his arms, his jaw, his nose and three of his ribs. The histories were oddly specific about that. Nisha did not consider herself to be a violent person, at least not unreasonably. She was quiet by nature and if left alone, she would leave others alone. But it took all of her self-control not to go to the back of the room and do as Ragnall had. She wanted to, oh how she did. But she didn't, didn't for the same reason as she didn't beat up the person who had flicked the pebble at her earlier. Win or lose, and she generally won, she would pay for it. She learned that early on. Someone would push her too far, she'd snap and rearrange the person's face, and then later in the day she would be called for by name and summoned to the principal's office. Of course, everyone would laugh at her. Then she would be told that her behavior was inappropriate and disproportionate, that this was not the first time she had caused problems, and that her parents had been notified. Then she'd usually be escorted off the school grounds and sent home for the day, or days. People watching this would point and laugh at her even more. But her mother would not be laughing when Nisha arrived home. Instead she'd get an earful about what an embarrassment she was. "My own daughter, starting fights like a common punk? I am mortified, just MORTIFIED at you!" Often the earful would be followed by a fistful to make sure she understood, while her sister laughed at her.

Nisha did come to understand. And so today she swallowed her anger and sat in silence for the rest of the class until the bell rang.

She hurried to her next class. She generally tried to spend as little time in the halls as possible because people felt freer to insult her when there wasn't a teacher nearby. If she could get into a classroom then she was all right for a little while. Her luck held and she made it without incident, silently taking her place in the front of the room. She did however brace herself for incidents within the class itself.

Some classes were refuges from bullying. Others, however, were more tolerant and in some the teachers actually seemed to stand in for the bullies, at least where Nisha was concerned. Mr. Johnson, teacher of English, was one of them. Not that he called her a bitch or threw pebbles. But it seemed to her that he focused on her more than others and criticized her more than necessary. She saw how his eyes narrowed when he called on her, the corners of his mouth turn down as he spoke to her, as if he found her existence in the class distasteful. The rest of the class seemed to feel it as well. Nisha noticed that the bullies in Johnson's class always whispered about her a little louder, always insulted her just a little bit more, and enjoyed more frequent laughs at her expense than in other classes.

The subject matter for today was a thoroughly depressing short story. It was about how a village handed out random bits of paper to everyone who lived there until someone drew the unlucky slip. Then that person's family did a second choosing, resulting in a person getting chosen and stoned to death by the whole village so their crops could grow. Reading it, Nisha couldn't help but feel like she was stuck in a similar lottery, except instead of just once, she was chosen over and over again to take everyone else's shit. Maybe they all gathered together before she got up. She could see them in her minds' eye: the students, the townspeople, her family, all meeting before dawn to choose their victim. "Nisha again. Oh well. Everyone knows what they need to do, right? Get the pebbles ready."

Certainly Johnson seemed to have picked her out beforehand. He had been looking at her even before class had begun. He was looking at her now. She sighed inwardly and prepared herself.

"Nisha."

"Yes, Mr. Johnson?"

"Tell us how you feel about this story."

He was baiting her. She saw his lips tease upwards into what might have been a smile.

"It's about…" She paused. She could have said something intelligent sounding but empty, and he'd have accepted it. Most times he seemed more interested in her submitting to him than any actual input she might have had. Once she did, he'd generally leave her alone. But she was still angry over the incident in her previous class and in no mood to cooperate. She took care to keep her voice as controlled and unemotional as possible so people wouldn't laugh at her. "It's about how people pick out someone they know to treat badly for no real reason." She was looking straight at him. She really shouldn't have. It was a challenge and he knew it. She saw his eyes narrow more than usual. "Go on."

He was offering her an out. A last chance to knuckle under. A chance to restate her opinion in less defiant terms. She hesitated.

"Perhaps you should come to the front of the room so the whole class can hear you a bit better." Nisha swallowed. Slowly, she walked towards the front of the room. They were on her lips, the trite, meaningless words that would satisfy him and deliver her. Then she heard someone snicker. That did it. Her temper flaring, she ran roughshod over her own walls.

"It's about how people can turn on each-other! It's about how a community, one that should stand together and take care of its own, can turn against itself for no reason, with no explanation, simply because… because nothing! They picked out one of their members and killed them because of some meaningless ritual that only made sense to them because 'this is how it's always been.' And when people point out how stupid that is, everyone gets real angry and says 'you don't have respect for tradition.' Well I don't have respect for traditions if they involve hurting people for no reason! And the villagers are all saying 'if we don't do this bad things will happen.' But the bad things are already happening! Nothing's worse than a community turning on its own! Nothing! There's no good reason for it! It shouldn't happen! And a community that does doesn't deserve the name!"

She stopped, suddenly appalled. She had said far more than she had intended to and if she hadn't been eloquent, she was sure she had been plain. Her classmates sat staring in malevolent silence. She noted with satisfaction that for once they weren't whispering. Instead they looked to Johnson, whose eyes were as narrow as Nisha had ever seen them. He was staring daggers at her now. He had baited her, yes, but she had raised the wager. This was his domain and she had challenged him, had challenged all of them. He could not let that go by. She swallowed again. She hadn't counted on things going this far, and there was no way out for her now. She had to see this through. That thought gave her a sudden strength. She had been almost slouching before, but now she drew herself up to her full height and looked him squarely in the face. Let him challenge her "interpretation" of the story. She would not take back the words and if pressed, she would not hesitate to name names. Respect was everything to her, and to gain everything she had to risk everything.

He continued to look at her and she resisted the urge to look at the floor, returning his stare. He lowered his gaze, plainly thinking, and then she saw a smirk began to form. He looked up at her now with an almost mischievous expression on his face.

"Your interpretation of the story raises some very interesting points, and you seem to have grasped its essence. However your diction and grammar still need work. You said 'real,' instead of 'really,' and your accent made you difficult to understand at times. I suggest that you practice your English more, perhaps speaking it at home as well as in the school. Practice does, after all, make perfect."

Nisha closed her eyes and resisted the urge to scream. She was really, really sick of people bringing up the fact that English was her second language. She didn't know when the fact that she spoke Maithili at home had begun to be an issue. Her mother never came to the school and Nisha never brought anyone home. Perhaps one of her mother's numerous visitors had heard them conversing and brought it up to their kids. Whatever the reason, somehow word had gotten out and was quickly followed by condescending derision about her accent. What accent? Her accent was very slight – indeed, she liked to think that she even had a bit of local twang in her voice. But the accent was immaterial. She knew they understood her. HER English was bad?! Did Johnson hear some of the mangled crap that passed for language from his other students? Their innumerable "ain'ts" and "don't got nones" barely got a response out of him. But if she made one mistake he would be all over her, holding her up for ridicule just like he was now. She opened her eyes and focused on him.

"My accent isn't the issue. I know you understood me. I…" He held a hand up for silence. Nisha knew better than to get into a shouting match with a teacher. She didn't want to be sent home for insubordination again. She had to let him have his say. She shut her mouth and watched as he faced the class.

"The problem with the children of today, in my view, is that they don't expect the best of themselves. You all heard what Nisha just said. She contends that her accent is not a problem and that we can understand her regardless. Now, how many of you have had difficulty understanding people because of their accents?"

A large number of hands went up. Johnson turned back to her, no longer smiling.

"There seems to be a new school of thought in this community, perhaps because of the growing number of Truxicans in our student body, that we should accept a foreign mode of living, rather than them adapting to us. You yourself have just said that you don't feel your speech is a problem."

"I…" Johnson overrode her objections. He was angry now.

"The language of this area is English. Not Spanish, not Mandarin, not whatever it is you speak at home. ENGLISH. And if you want to succeed here, young lady, you need to apply yourself and not expect everyone to accommodate YOU. English! Learn it! Practice it! Master it! Now sit down!"

Fuming, Nisha walked back to her seat. She took care to keep her head low. Johnson's rant had not been loud enough to drown out the snickering from her classmates. She knew they would be smiling at her and she knew that if she saw any of those smiles, she would not be able to control her temper. She was angry at them, angrier at Johnson, but angriest at herself. It was her fault, all of this. Had she really thought that she could make them respect her by standing up to them? That all she had to do was get up in front of them and make her feelings known and the teasing would stop? She should have known better. Life didn't work that way. Nisha was the school bitch, and she could no more change that fact than she could make the sun go backwards. There was a caste system in this miserable world and her role in it was to provide amusement and entertainment for her betters. It was absolutely not her place to question or object to this arrangement and if she tried, she would be punished as she had been now. She shuddered. She had a sudden image of herself as a grown adult, still being mocked, still being dismissed, and living out her life providing others with laughs at her expense. She shook her head, trying to banish the image. She was Nisha, Nisha Kadam, and she was better than that!

Except deep down she suspected she wasn't.

She failed to notice the bell go off for lunchtime. As her classmates left the room, Nisha sat lost in her thoughts until Johnson slapped her desk, bringing her out of her trance with a start, much to the amusement of those remaining.

"Were you at least daydreaming in English?" She stared at him, saying nothing. Whether in English or any other language, any answer she gave would be wrong. She began to get up, only to be forced back down by his hand on her shoulder. "I did not say you could go." His eyes were crinkled in amusement, and Nisha imagined herself forcing her thumbs into his eye sockets before ripping out his tongue. Fighting down her anger, she forced herself to be cordial.

"Can I go now, Mr. Johnson?"

Johnson simply smiled and took his hand away from her shoulder. She left.

She threaded her way through the halls, conscious as always of her height. She was already a head taller than most of her peers and people had taken to calling her "the jolly brown giant," a nickname she detested along with "Goldeneye." She saw one of those people walking in her direction with a group of friends. It was the pebble thrower. Not wanting to deal with them, Nisha slid close to the wall and turned her face towards it, hoping they would not see her. She heard their voices growing louder and pressed herself against the wall. They were almost past when she heard it. "Bitch is humping the wall." Nisha closed her eyes and sighed. No matter what, she just kept getting herself into situations where people laughed at her. Maybe she was just naturally stupid. Her shoulders slumped in defeat, she walked down the hall towards the cafeteria.

Soon enough the lunch room came into view. The closed doors did not hide the buzz of voices emanating from within. It should have been a cheerful sound, but to Nisha it was just depressing. There would be no one in there waiting for her, she thought. No friends looking forward to her company. She imagined, just for a moment, that she was popular. She would walk through that door and people all over the cafeteria would wave to get her attention. "Nisha! Hey, Nisha, how's it going? Here, sit down." Someone would move over so she would have a space to sit with them. They would speak with her and listen to her. That would be so wonderful.

"Move it, bitch."

Nisha had become so intent on her fantasy that she had actually stopped moving. She muttered an apology, but the person was already walking past her. She kicked herself inwardly for giving people yet another reason to laugh at her, and so soon after the last one. Standing there daydreaming like a great stupid statue! She had to accept reality. People didn't make space for her – they moved away from her. They didn't include her – they ignored her. They didn't listen to her – they talked over her. She was meant to be laughed at, not with.

And yet Nisha paused in at the cafeteria entrance. Her breath caught in her throat as she saw all those people, enjoying each other's company. They were all so happy. Was it so bad for her to want to join in? She could try again, she thought. She could sit down next to a random group and introduce herself. Maybe today was the day her luck would change, the day she would find some people who accepted her. She would do it, she decided. She worked up her nerve, picking out a group three tables from the entrance. They were all girls from her grade, but she had not seen any of them in her classes and so there was a chance they didn't know her well enough to hate her. She took a deep breath, steeled herself and took her first step forward.

And then she stopped dead. She had been staring at them the whole time, and just as she stepped forward one of them had looked up and noticed her gaze. And returned it. Nisha swallowed. There was nothing malevolent in the way the girl looked at her, but then she said something to the rest of her group. And then the whole group turned to stare at her. She felt her resolve crumbling. How could this possibly go well? What did she think would happen? She would sit down, say "Hi, name's Nisha!" and just like that, they would accept her? It didn't work that way. It never worked that way. She had to know her place. And so she fled from their stares, walking past them without another glance. She found an isolated corner at a table on the far side of the room and sat down to eat her lunch in silence.

She opened her lunchbox and frowned at the little food within. She had been doing a lot of growing in the past year or so and was frequently hungry. Predictably, both her mother and her sister began to poke fun at her weight, the fact that she was actually rather skinny notwithstanding. "My daughter is having two growth spurts, one in each direction." Compared to other things her mother said and did, it barely rated a reaction. Beneath the insults, however, Nisha felt that her mother begrudged her every bite. Indeed, there was so little food here that Nisha wondered if she wasn't being messed with. It was hard to tell – anything could go with her mother. Had she deliberately under-packed her daughter's lunch in the hope that Nisha would complain, thus providing an excuse to punish her? She decided she didn't want to find out. It would be the trash cans again today.

She put her lunch away. Trying to guess at her mother's intent had ruined her appetite. She tried not to think about the fact that the day was half over and that soon enough she would be returning to a worse form of bullying. Even a place as bad as this could be a refuge compared to what awaited her at home. Maybe she could incur some sort of disciplinary action against herself that would get her held after hours. It wouldn't be difficult, she mused. She could curse out a teacher or be disruptive in class. No, it wouldn't help in the end. She might buy herself a few hours of peace, but her mother would more than make up for it when Nisha got home.

She put all thoughts of her mother out of her head. She would be home soon enough. She had some respite now, fleeting as it was. Best to enjoy it. She looked around at the rest of the students in the cafeteria, noticing as she always did how the demographics clustered together. She shook her head. Ragnall, when he had officially opened the planet for colonization, boasted that it would be a "fellowship of the worthy," a place that eschewed the boundaries of race and gender in favor of what he called "inner mettle." If he ever had realized that dream, it had not lasted down to the present. The people who had colonized his planet brought their prejudices with them. There was some social intermixing, but not much. For the most part whites sat with whites, blacks with blacks, Truxicans with Truxicans. Who did she have to sit with?

She was still wrestling with the answer to that question when the bell rang. Sighing, she stood up. Two more classes and then she would have to leave. She skirted the trash cans on the way out, taking care to peer inside of each one. If she was lucky, one of the students would have tossed out something partially or, even better, completely uneaten. Nisha wasn't picky. She would take what she could find where she found it. She might be mocked for it, but it was better than the one time Nisha had complained to her mother about being hungry. That time she had been told what a greedy, ungrateful bitch she was, how enough was never enough for her and that she was already as fat as a pig. Then her mother had scalded her hands with some of the water she was boiling. After that Nisha had learned to fend for herself foodwise.

Her luck was in this time. She found part of a grilled cheese sandwich in one can and an uneaten apple in a second. Both cans were full enough that she was able to dip in and scoop up the food within without too many people noticing. She was sure a few people made faces behind her back, and maybe exchanged glances, but that was nothing new to her. The third trash can contained a tray of tater tots that had miraculously landed bottom down on top of the rest of the refuse. However, it was nearly empty. Nisha paused there, considering. If she wanted the goodies inside, she would have to bend over and stick her arm all the way down, and a lot of people would notice. And then they would laugh at her. Was that what she wanted? Maybe being hungry wasn't so bad, she thought. Almost in admonishment, her stomach growled just then, and she kicked herself. If her mother hadn't given her much for lunch, she could hardly expect much for dinner. She would need all the food she could scrounge. Taking a deep breath, she bent over and fished for the tray. She thought she heard someone snorting in derision behind her, but she couldn't be sure. She kept her mind on the prize as she got her fingers around one edge of the tray. Just then she heard a soft hissing sound and, an instant later, a huge amount of refuse flowed into the can. Someone had dumped an entire can of garbage into her own can and the food, Nisha's hand and half of her forearm were buried.

"Did I spoil your lunch?"

Nisha closed her eyes. Why wouldn't they leave her alone? Slowly she straightened up and turned to see the pebble thrower smirking at her, accompanied by half a dozen similarly amused friends. A trash can, doubtless newly emptied, sat by her side. Nisha stared at her.

"You can still go rooting for it if you like. Isn't that what you people do anyway?"

Her people? She looked at her hand, then back at the pebble thrower, who snorted and stepped forward.

"What? You want trouble? Listen here…"

Nisha hit her. A clean right cross. She took her dirty brown hand and smashed it right into her adversary's pretty white face. The pebble thrower screamed and dropped to her knees, blood flowing freely from her broken nose.

Nisha felt wonderful. No, more than wonderful – euphoric. All the anger she had in her, all the bile that had been building up, suddenly flowed out of her. She had been in fights before, but not like this. There was something therapeutic in being able to just drop someone you hated in front of their friends and onlookers. She felt refreshed, reinvigorated, as if in that one blow she had cleansed her soul. She should do this more often, she reflected. And then she remembered why she typically DIDN'T do it and all at once she came crashing down from the clouds.

Her surging elation was replaced by terror. She had assaulted someone in front of her friends and a quarter of the student body. She had small hope of anyone speaking up for her. When word of this reached the principal, as it surely would, Nisha would be the one in trouble. The fact that she had been provoked had never mattered before and would not matter now. All the shit she went through, all the insults thrown her way, all the constant misery she endured… it meant nothing. Nisha Kadam had thrown the first punch, therefore in the eyes of authority she had instigated the situation, and not for the first time. She backed away, fear consuming her. She would be held responsible, and soon enough she would be called into the principal's office to be lectured and then sent home and her mother would be waiting…

And Nisha ran. She ran from the pebble thrower, from the bystanders, from the whole world. She ran, ducking and weaving and pushing past people in her way, not caring who saw or pointed or laughed or cursed. All she wanted was to get away. Everything was a blur as she raced down the hall towards the nearest bathroom. She hit the nearest door at full speed, desperate to be alone and to be left alone. To her dismay a student stood by one of the stalls, talking to an occupant. Nisha turned her back to them, but tears were already flowing down her face. She leaned over the sink. She just felt so helpless. She was so sick of being everyone's punching bag. She hated everyone and everything. She could count the number of people who were nice to her on one hand, the rest had never shown her anything but scorn and mockery. What was it about her that was so wrong?

"Fuck is she crying about?"

Nisha raised her head. For a second she hesitated, not believing what she heard. Then her mind understood and disbelief was replaced by rage. She whipped around to see the student staring at her, and saw the disdainful expression change to one of fear. At that fear, Nisha pounced. A running jump carried her headlong into her enemy, slamming her into the wall. Nisha head-butted her and then drove her fist into a kidney, followed by a knee once, twice, three times in the same spot. The student doubled over, and Nisha grabbed her by the hair and slammed her forehead into the adjacent stall wall. Nisha heard someone screaming obscenities and realized it was her. She kept hold of her victim's head and pulled down at the same time as she brought her knee up again and again into the student's face. Suddenly she felt someone grab at her shoulder. Without thinking she threw her right elbow back, felt it connect and heard a cry of pain. She turned round to see what must have been her victim's friend clutching a bleeding nose. Nisha dropped the student she had in hand and advanced on the friend, who took her hands away from her bleeding nose and held them out in front of her face in supplication.

Nisha shoved her. "What?! What?!" She shoved her again, harder this time. "What do you want?!" A third shove, so hard that the student fell against the sink. "What?!" Nisha held her arms out to the sides, inviting her opponent to attack. "You want some of this?!" The student shook her head. Nisha hit her again, then spat in her face. The other student was still on the ground.

"Get out! Take your friend and get out!"

Whimpering, the student half helped, half dragged her friend out the door. Nisha watched them go, then regarded herself hatefully in the bathroom mirror. Three fights in a single period. She would really be in for it now. Thoughts about what her mother would do when she got home filled her mind. She pointed at her reflection.

"You are a fucking piece of shit. Can't behave, can't control yourself. You're a fucking fuckup. Just like they said."

She sank down next to the sink, lost in her misery. She didn't want to go to class now. What would the point be? The losers would surely report her and she would get called into the principal's office soon enough and then suspended. She just wanted to hide from all of them. She could skip out, she thought. Just walk out the door and go hunting for a few hours. She'd get in trouble for truancy but that hardly mattered now. Then she shook her head furiously. If she left, she would be running away from them all. They would say "Nisha couldn't face the consequences." They would dog her about it for weeks. Nisha the coward, Nisha the runner. Nisha the bitch. No. She would show them she was not a bitch.

Taking a deep breath, she walked out of the bathroom, down the hall and found her way to her scheduled class, taking her normal place at the front of the class. Whatever time she had left, she would spend it with her head held high. She was not a bitch.

It helped that this, geography, was among her favorites, mostly because it was about places that weren't here. She might not have been much use with directions, but she could name every planet in the system. Hera, Pandora, Promethea... and when Mrs. Sanchez asked the class to do just that, she did. And then she heard it.

"Smart-assed bitch…"

That really wasn't fair. She wasn't out to look smart, nor did she consider herself to be a know-it-all. It wasn't her fault that the bar for this school was set so low that it was practically buried in the ground in the hopes that any student who simply showed up would stumble over it. This was basic information, and even if geography might not have been important to those who would probably never leave the town, it was still good to know. And what did it matter to them anyway how well she did or didn't do? But for some reason Nisha's performance, like everything else about her, was subject to ridicule no matter what she did. She couldn't win. If she did well, she was a "smart-ass bitch." If she did poorly, she was a "stupid-ass bitch." What the fuck did they want from her? She was about to turn around, a scathing retort already on her lips, when the intercom struck first.

"Nisha Kadam, please report to the principal's office immediately."

The room fell silent. Nisha closed her eyes. She had known it would come, but that never made it any easier, and the humiliation threatened to overwhelm her resolve. She took a deep breath and counted to five before opening her eyes. She didn't look around. She knew everyone would be staring at her, and she didn't know if she could withstand the mockery in their faces. Biting her lip, she looked silently at her teacher, desperately needing the support. Mrs. Sanchez, who liked Nisha and was well aware of the girl's daily struggles, gave a nod of encouragement. Sometimes all you needed was the knowledge that there was just one person who believed in you, who understood what you were going through. Nisha drew strength from that nod, and with it, she was able to rise from her seat and walk out the classroom door. With her head held high.

The trip to the principal's office was thankfully uneventful. Being the middle of a class period, there were very few people in the hallways. It was odd being able to walk the halls without having to worry about what she might encounter there. If it weren't for the issue that brought her out here, Nisha might have enjoyed the experience. It was so rare that she could go *anywhere* without people trying to hurt her. That was all she wanted. Why was it so much to ask?

The principal's office came into sight. Nisha stared at it for a moment, as the full realization hit her. She would have to go in there, and then her mother would be notified. It took all of her strength not to collapse at that moment. Terror flooded through her. She honestly wondered if she would live through the night. She had never been this bad before. Three fights in a single class period! She put a hand against the wall to steady herself. Her mother would kill her for this. Nisha could already feel the fingers around her throat. Her mother would be screaming at her, telling her this was the final straw, and Nisha would beg her to stop. And her mother wouldn't stop. She would go on squeezing, pressing, choking the worthless life out of her useless bitch of a daughter…

"No… don't. STOP!"

Nisha's outburst brought her back to the present. Appalled, she looked around, desperately hoping no one saw. The last thing she needed was to give her tormentors still more ammunition. The hall was empty. But the classroom nearest to her had fallen silent. She could only hope no one came out to investigate. To her relief, no one did, but she kept her head down and practically slunk the rest of the way to the principal's office.

The receptionist, one of those people who delighted in Nisha's troubles, greeted her with a knowing smirk.

"Ms. Kadam, so good to see you. What brings you here today?"

"I'm here to see the principal," Nisha replied tonelessly.

"No doubt, but for what reason?"

The condescension in her voice made Nisha want to smack her. The receptionist had no right to ask that question. Her job was to check people in and out. She had no reason to know anything more. Doubtless she wanted something to gossip about with her equally stupid friends, but damned if Nisha was going to be the topic of that conversation. Nisha said nothing, simply glaring at her before reaching down to sign herself in. The receptionist roughly jerked the sign-in sheet away.

"You're supposed to ask permission, you know."

No, she knew nothing of the sort. She had signed herself in and watched others sign themselves in countless times. Was this a new game? Why would they not stop messing with her? Nisha held onto her temper and forced the words out through gritted teeth.

"May I please sign myself in?"

"Yes. You can." The receptionist made no motion to give her the sign in sheet. Nisha wanted to scream.

"May I have the sign-in sheet to sign myself in?"

The receptionist flashed a grin that made Nisha want to punch her in the throat. Rather than offer her the sheet, to Nisha's surprise the receptionist began writing something in the "additional notes" field. She read out loud as she wrote.

"Student was very rude and confrontational…"

That did it.

"Fuck you, I was!"

The words were out before Nisha could stop them. She cursed herself for her lack of restraint. But she was worn out, exhausted, tired beyond endurance of trying to be good. All she ever heard was how horrible, how awful and how worthless she was, and how she should try to do better. And she did try. She tried so hard. And what did she get in return? It was almost as if people didn't want her to be good, no matter how much they proclaimed otherwise. She would come in determined to be on her best behavior, and then the same people who criticized her would do their best to make her angry, and then she would be punished all over again. Now on top of everything else she had cursed out a faculty member, and within earshot of the principal! But she hadn't wanted to! All she had wanted was to sign in! All she wanted was to be good! Why wouldn't they let her be good?!

She stood trembling, whether from fear or rage was more than she could say. She stared at the receptionist, who smiled again.

"Use of profanity? I'm not sure if I can allow you…"

"You officious little shit! Just let me fucking sign in!" Nisha screamed, bringing her fist down on the desk with a force that made the receptionist shrink back in her chair. Nisha was done trying to be good for the day. If they wanted bad behavior from her, she would give it to them.

The receptionist certainly was determined to ensure it. She stared imperiously at Nisha. But Nisha detected uncertainty beneath the stare.

"I think, perhaps, you should return to class until you can behave…"

Nisha had had her fill of bureaucratic interactions. She came around behind the desk and stalked towards the receptionist, who immediately leaped out of her chair and moved backwards, the fear on her face obvious. Nisha looked at her, and then bent over her desk and signed herself in with a flourish. She then marched silently over to the wait area and sat down heavily. Still fuming, she stared at the receptionist, who uncertainly crept back to her desk. She picked up the sign-in sheet and looked at it, then looked back at Nisha. Nisha's eyes narrowed, silently daring the receptionist to scratch her name out. Instead the bitch swallowed, then picked up the phone and dialed a number.

"Mr. Harrison, Ms. Kadam is here to see you." There was a moment of silence before the receptionist looked at Nisha again. "He'll see you in a few minutes."

The politeness she was now displaying disgusted Nisha. She had nothing but contempt for people like that. She continued to stare at the receptionist, now hunched over her desk and trying to avoid Nisha's gaze, every so often shooting a furtive glance in her direction. Nisha bared her teeth at her, and was satisfied to see the receptionist hunching over further still. Nisha was suddenly enjoying herself. It felt good to be in the driver's seat for a change. From the time she woke up from the time she went to bed, Nisha Kadam lived in fear. Fear defined her life. Her earliest memories were of her mother beating her. Since then, there had scarcely been a moment when Nisha wasn't afraid. She went to school frightened and returned home terrified. Even her dreams were filled with fear. No matter where she went, someone would be waiting to hurt her. And if they weren't there, she wondered where they would come from next. She knew it was wrong to wish that feeling on someone else, but she couldn't help it. It felt good, it just felt so *good,* to have someone else be afraid of her for a change. It felt so good to have someone else be the bitch.

At length the receptionist's phone rang. She answered it, listened, and simply responded "Yes," before looking at Nisha. "He'll see you now." A lot later than "a few minutes," Nisha thought irritably. She wondered what the delay was. Probably the bastard had heard her argument with the receptionist and taken "official notice" of it. The thought caused her anger to flare up again. Shit. That was all she got. Just shit piled on more shit. She passed by the receptionist and suddenly stopped, turning menacingly in her direction as if to attack. Her reward was the bitch practically jumping out of her chair. Nisha smiled sweetly at her, fervently wishing she could do more. Maybe one day, she thought, she would have people like this in *her* power and *she* would decide *their* punishments. She shook her head. Like that would ever happen. Because in the end *she* was the real bitch. And always would be.

Her shoulders sagging, the bitch walked through the door to receive her own punishment.

The principal didn't look up as she entered the room. He never looked up when she entered the room. As always, he was hunched over a thick file – Nisha's file – and did not acknowledge her. Her jaw tightened. He'd seen her dozens of times that year – there was no way he didn't know exactly who she was. It was a game he liked to play, to assert his authority by making her wait, sometimes as long as 15 minutes.

Nisha wasn't in the mood for games today.

"Mr. Harrison?"

He gave no indication that he heard her. He continued to idly leaf through her file.

"Mr. Harrison."

Still no response. Why was he doing this to her? Did it really give him that much of an ego boost to get one over on a 14-year-old?

Nisha closed her eyes and took a deep breath, summoning her courage.

"Mr. Harrison, it's Nisha Kadam!"

Slowly, he raised his head to look at her. "Sit down." She did.

"Three fights."

His gaze was stern, his voice laced with hate.

"Three. Fights."

His eyes bored into her.

"Explain yourself."

"I…" Nisha stopped. What could she say? He wasn't interested in her explanations. No one was. Harrison had already decided she was solely to blame and, technically, she was. Harrison wasn't interested in anything more than "technically." That would be too much work.

"You. What?"

She sighed. Best to just get this over with. She kept her voice as level as she could.

"I was being made fun of and I lost my temper. I have no excuse for my actions."

He scoffed. "No, you haven't. And you've been losing your temper far too often." His own temper seemed to flare at that moment. "What was that commotion with my receptionist?!"

Nisha bridled at that. "I wanted to sign in and she wasn't letting me!"

"She was insisting on a certain standard of behavior, a standard you seem determined not to live up to!" He pulled out a slip of paper. "Mr. Johnson was forced to write you up today. He said you were disruptive and insubordinate."

Nisha's mouth dropped open. The unfairness of it took her breath away. She tried to speak, could not. She closed her mouth then opened it again. Still no words came out.

Her silence seemed only to provoke Harrison further. He brought a fist down on the desk. "Explain yourself!"

She found her voice. "He asked me to speak in front of the class. I spoke."

"He wrote that you insulted him, the class and the entire student body."

Nisha's anger began to rise again. "I only spoke the truth!"

He scoffed. "What truth?"

"That a community that picks on its own doesn't deserve the name!"

His eyes narrowed as Johnson's had. One more "truth," Nisha thought, and she would regret it. Harrison's voice was dangerously low. "Are you saying we're not a community?"

Her dam broke. "No! You're not! You people mess with me and mess with me and mess with me, when I haven't done anything to you, and no one does anything about it, and if I complain I get told not to cause issues or I get blamed for it and people keep picking on me, and then I get mad because of course I get mad – who the hell wouldn't? – and I lose my temper and then I get in trouble, and then I get dragged in here again and told what a piece of shit I am, and then I get sent home and my mother kicks my ass and tells me what a piece of shit I am, and then I come back here and it starts all over again, and no one ever does anything!"

She saw the flush creeping up Harrison's neck, though he kept control of his temper.

"Are you saying we're to blame for your inability to behave?"

"You could stop it," she shot back. "Why don't you talk to some of the other students in Johnson's class and ask them what happened? You're the principal! Why don't you talk to Johnson and tell him to stop picking on me? Why don't you call some parents? Why don't you do something?"

It was a stupid question, and she knew it. He wouldn't help her. He might talk about maintaining a "model of academic excellence," but he was only concerned with the idea, not the reality. To deal with Nisha's reality, he would have to make those phone calls to parents and meetings with teachers. He would have to ask questions, perhaps hard ones, maybe even question what "community" meant. Maybe Harrison didn't want to ask those questions. Maybe he just wanted to pin the blame on one person rather than many. It was so much easier that way. After all, it wasn't like she was one of them.

Harrison's eyes drifted downwards. He seemed to think for a minute, then looked back at her and she saw the resentment in those eyes. Her continued presence was a thorn in his side, a walking, talking reminder that all was not well in Maggie Jakobs Secondary School.

"I am deeply disturbed by your continual refusal to take responsibility for your actions." Nisha opened her mouth but as Johnson had earlier, Harrison overrode her objections. "Every time you come in here, you always have some story about how it's the other person at fault, not you. You blame everybody else for your problems, but I find that the only common factor in all this is YOU. YOU start fights. YOU talk back. YOU cause problems. To quote a well-known fact, if someone is mean to you, they're mean. If everyone is mean to you, YOU'RE mean. You want me to stop it, do you? You want me to do something about it, do you? Very well then! Nisha Kadam, you are suspended for one month, effective immediately."

A chill went through her. She sat there, speechless with shock. A month. A whole month of imprisonment. A whole month trying to dodge her mother's rages. A whole month of no escape. Her stomach twisted in knots. She felt nauseated, dizzy with fear.

"No… please."

She stared at Harrison, the mute appeal in her eyes. But he was implacable. She tried again.

"Mother… she'll hurt me."

"She should. It might knock some discipline into you."

She had called him out and he would make her suffer for it. She tried one last time, her voice barely a whisper.

"My assignments?"

"You can pick them up at the post office. Now get out of my office and out of my sight."

Somehow Nisha managed to find her feet. She had nearly reached the door, indeed she had opened it, when Harrison decided to drop the bombshell.

"I am notifying your parents of your behavior today. In detail. And maybe next time you'll think twice before being disruptive."

Nisha's eyes were welling up. She tried to stifle the sobs. People were watching.

"Oh, stop that."

The receptionist was smiling again. So recently cast down, she now sensed weakness and, like a wild dog on red meat, she pounced. Nisha turned towards her. Why were they always so mean to her? Why would they never just leave her alone? She advanced on the receptionist as she had done before, but things were different now. One more incident today and Nisha would likely be expelled. She knew it and so did the receptionist. Her smile widened and, safe behind her bureaucratic shield, her eyes dared Nisha to come ahead.

At that smile the last sliver of defiance left Nisha. Her emotional well was exhausted. She had no reserves and no fight left in her – everything was used up. The tears were flowing freely now. She tried to stop them, but it was no use. Everything hurt too much. She despised herself for showing weakness in front of others, but she couldn't help it. She was just worn down. What difference did it make? Everyone knew she was the school bitch.

She ran. She ran like the bitch she was, past the receptionist, past the other waiting students and out the door. She ran to the nearest bathroom and thanked the heavens it was empty. She sank down into a corner and just sobbed. She felt so alone. No matter where she went, no matter what she did, she would always be the bitch. Always.

Eventually the tears ceased to come, and Nisha sat there shaking. She was afraid. She didn't want to go home! But she had to. She steadied her breathing and dried her tears on her sleeve. Slowly, unsteadily, she stood. She actually had to use the sink to haul herself up. She stood there a moment. She actually stumbled when she took that first step, but she managed to stay upright. She had to act strong, even if she wasn't.

The security guard was waiting, as always, by her locker. He was one of those people who seemed to have a problem with her existing and she did not acknowledge him. She saw that someone had scrawled "FUCKING BITCH" on her locker door. It was true. She opened up the door and reached in, and just then the guard kicked the door shut, trapping her hand and causing her to cry out in pain.

"Step away from the locker!" He had his revolver drawn and pointed at her. There was a murderous look in his eyes. One sudden move and he would splatter her brains across the wall. To people like him, people like her were little better than animals. She was a mad dog, a mad bitch, and what did one do with mad bitches?

Bitch. Her sister had known what it meant after all. A female dog. Nisha had thought that was pretty weird. What was so bad about dogs?

"Step away!" the guard yelled, while pressing the locker door closed so that she couldn't. Give them a bit of power, Nisha thought. She wanted to take that revolver and shove it up his ass and blow his guts out from the inside.

"Yes, sir."

He released the pressure on the door and she backed away obediently. His eyes still on her, his revolver still pointed, he reached in and fished out her rifle. Like many students, Nisha kept one in her locker in case the chance to do a little hunting after school arose. Doubtless the guard thought she would shoot up the school and in truth she was half thinking about it.

The guard slung the rifle over his shoulder and stepped back, his gun still trained on her. "Go on."

Silently, she retrieved her things. There wasn't much else in there – she tended to carry everything with her. It was a heavy load, but carrying it cut down on the time she'd need to spend in the hallways since she didn't have to visit her locker as often. She sighed at the thought that she wouldn't be visiting her locker now for quite some time. A month. Thirty days. Thirty fucking days. She stared at the interior of her locker, prolonging the moment before, sighing again, she closed the door.

She turned to face the guard, who had relaxed a bit. "I'm ready to go." He nodded and motioned for her to start walking. The hallway seemed to go by in a blur and before Nisha knew it, she was outside the door. She turned to face the guard, who contemptuously threw her rifle to the ground. She began to approach it when the guard drew his revolver again.

"Don't move!" Even now, outside the school, she was treated like a bandit. The guard slowly backed towards the entrance, his gun never leaving her. Finally he made it to the door and slipped inside.

She picked up her rifle and stared at it. For a moment she imagined climbing up a tree and waiting until the school day was out. She would wait and wait, and when the students began to come out, she would pop them one by one. Or maybe she would just blow up the school. She smirked at the thought of gathering everyone who was ever mean to her – students, faculty, parents and townspeople – in an arena somewhere and blowing them all to hell. They would be screaming and she would be laughing. Then she sighed. It was all just a dream.

The path home was before her. She didn't want to go. But where else could she go? She stood there, motionless. She was afraid to go, afraid to stay. She was Nisha Kadam, the scaredy-cat bitch.

The bell rang, jolting her out of her trance. Students would be filing out, heading towards the last class of the day. It would have been gym class for her. At least she'd be spared the locker room teasing, never mind that she was in far better shape than any of them. She remembered one time when everyone did pushups. Some of her peers had struggled to get to ten and none had made it past twenty-five. She had snapped out forty before stopping. Naturally, people made fun of her weight for the next few days.

It was time to go. She had a long walk ahead of her. She hefted her bag and took one final look back. Then she turned away. She looked up at the sky, wondering if things would be better elsewhere. They could hardly be worse. She yearned to escape, to make her own life, a better life where no one would ever laugh at her. Then reality sunk in. There was no escape. Not for people like her.

It was very quiet. Nisha took a deep breath and willed her legs to work. She took a step. Then the next.

She had to accept her fate.

She was the bitch.

And that was all she would ever be.


End file.
